


Bear My Sins

by LuciferianRising



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Dwight is his unsuspecting prey, Jake is a vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24819622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferianRising/pseuds/LuciferianRising
Summary: “You’re, um. Not a serial killer, right?”Jake’s brows furrow. He wonders if he should tell Dwight the truth, be upfront about his fate. Part of him knows that the other would probably laugh in disbelief or think it was a sick joke. Jake kind of wished that was true.
Relationships: Dwight Fairfield/Jake Park
Comments: 10
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyyye, local vampire AU writing nerd here with their latest creation: DBD Edition. Enjoy!

It’s better this way, he thinks. More incentive to be alone, to be away from others. Life like this isn’t glamorous, nor is it any good for his conscience, but even that seems to be slipping away these days. Easier that way, to drown out the gurgles and other carnal noises that he seems to rip from some poor stranger when the time arises. 

Doesn’t mean that his thoughts aren’t haunted by those noises when he’s left all alone to his devices. He tries to block them out as best as he can, but they slip through, like water pouring from his palms in between his fingers. He’d rather be numb than feel the full brunt of it, and the high of his meals is the perfect buffer between him and his mind. 

A vicious cycle, feeding each other, but also necessary to dull the reality of it all.

At least he gets peace and quiet these days. No one presumes him to be alive, at least none of his family. One night, he disappeared beneath the light of the moon and never came back. Wandered off foolishly into the woods. Last mistake he ever made, but if he was being honest, he was so desperate to get away from said family that the idea of danger didn’t phase him. 

Animals he could handle. He seemed to share an understanding with the creatures that transcended words or motions. But what he encountered that night was something he’d never dreamed could be real, never dreamed would be the thing to pluck the humanity out of his soul and leave him as something entirely new. 

Monstrous, really. That’s the only way he knows how to describe himself, and it’s not from a place of spite, but genuine classification. He was a monster. Not animal or human, or anything that could be grouped together with either of those two things.

Humans weren’t a species he could call his own anymore. They were  _ prey _ . A source of food and sustenance. Their lives only served one purpose to him now, and it was a grim truth that he slowly came to accept. Perhaps it made him selfish, giving into this new nature of his, but it was easier to go on if he wasn’t fighting his own instincts every step of the way. 

Easier to give in, to relish the taste of them and find pleasure in it. There were so many of them, and he thought, perhaps a bit maliciously, that sometimes life wasn’t fair. It certainly wasn’t fair to him. There was no one to give a damn as he clung onto life desperately, bleeding out on the forest floor from a bite that damn near severed his artery. 

There was no one to give a damn when he awoke suddenly one night, finding the wound to be healed and a terrible thirst to be scratching his throat raw. No one to care about the fact that something wasn’t right, and he should most certainly be dead. 

He wonders if his parents even tried to look for him. He was such a ghost in their lives that he didn’t blame them if they didn’t. In fact, he prefers it this way. His feelings for them were far from amiable. In fact, one could say that he teetered the line of hate with them.

Hate for their money, their lavish lifestyle, their insistence that he be this or that and if he didn’t, they would never accept him as their child. Lectures that once left him in tears, but towards the end only left him numb and full of silent anger. 

No, he decides. It’s definitely better this way.

He’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck as he wanders the neon landscape. Buildings are lit with promise of life, whether it be office workers clocking in some extreme overtime, or little bars and clubs vibrating with the sound of chatter and music. It’s late fall, and the partying months are winding to a close, but it’s obvious that the city still has plenty of life left to give. 

He stops at a corner of a street, waiting for the crosswalk to light up so he can pass through, but his attention is earned by the neon glow of blue light bleeding from a blacked out building. He turns his dark eyes to an open door, where a bouncer stands, chatting with a few party goers who’d stepped out to smoke their cigarettes. Dance music drones on, muffled by the walls, but nonetheless loud enough to be heard from where he was standing. 

He turns his eyes back towards the crosswalk, huffing moodily beneath his breath that he shouldn’t go inside, shouldn’t let himself hunt  _ just yet _ because he knows he can hold out for longer. But it’s like a buffet calling him to dinner, and he quickly finds his will eroding. The temptation is just too much, and once the thought enters his mind, he’s unable to banish it. 

His feet carry him to the other side of the street, and the bouncer gives him a long, scrutinizing look before patting him down loosely. Nothing to note, no weapons or contraband to be seen. The bouncer jerks his thumb towards the open door, and in he goes.

The world turns dark and colorful. Only the glow of light up jewelry, flashing spotlights, and black out lamps guides the people inside, but he can see just fine in the shade of the building. He was built for hunting at night. The darkness was his domain now. 

His nose wrinkles for a moment, so many different scents assaulting him as he slowly shuffles into the crowd. He’s surrounded by bodies, all writhing together to the sound of the music, brushing against him yet being completely oblivious to the fact that he was even there. He could have been the wind for all these people cared. The music was too hypnotizing to them. 

It gives him a heady rush, all the different smells coalescing into something delicious. Jake feels his mouth begin to water, and he clears his throat, trying to rid it of the sudden itch it has. There’s so much to choose from, so many different flavors of human that it makes his head spin. He’s still not quite used to it, and the sensory overload leaves him reeling in the sea of bodies. 

He tries to focus on them one at a time, parse through the smells until he finds something he definitely wants. He sniffs lightly, eyes closing and music becoming a muffled hum in his ears. Too mild, too strong, too foreign, too rancid. He’s typically not a picky eater, but tonight, he has many options laid out before him. He can afford to be a little choosey now. 

He wanders through the crowd like an ominous shadow passing between the dancers’ bodies. No one pays attention to him as he ghosts around the club, chasing a meal that’ll leave him nice and satisfied. No one is aware of the danger that lurks nearby, not a single soul has any idea of the violence his teeth can rend. It’s almost sad, he thinks. Sad to think that someone won’t be making it home tonight, and their blood will be on his hands. Or rather, his lips.

He buries the thought deep inside of him, and refuses to touch it again. 

Something wafts close to him, and the scent is sweet, intoxicating. He can feel saliva pooling on his tongue, his eyes cracking open to a half-lidded stare. It’s such a smooth smell, inviting and warm, with the barest hint of spice to it. His feet begin carrying him towards the source, working of their own accord as he walks with tunnel vision towards his prey. 

The crowd thins and allows him out into an opening, where a neon lit bar resides. Sitting at the counter is a rather nervous looking man, his hand elevated to his lips, his teeth biting nervously at his nails. His eyes show obvious panic, and his posture is withdrawn, guarded. Short, ruffled hair frames a pale face, a set of thick black-rimmed glasses sitting upon his nose. He looks to be in work attire, though it’s obviously been undone a bit to relax in the late evening hours. An undone tie is wrapped around his neck and a dress shirt hangs loosely over the waist of his trousers. 

It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to be here. His light grey eyes flit about wildly, before shifting back down to his lap. Submissive, nonthreatening. Jake can smell the vulnerability on him. An easy target, indeed. 

Those eyes flit back up suddenly, landing dead on Jake, who stops cold in his tracks, returning an unreadable look towards the stranger. The hand lowers from his face, and the man offers him a shaky, unsure smile, giving a little wave before swallowing thickly and lowering his gaze again. Jake hesitates for a moment, weighing his options. 

He decides posturing is the best line of action, and promptly lets his feet carry him to the empty seat next to the timid stranger. He seats himself gracefully, slowly, trying to mask the unnerving aura he gave off. The last thing he needed was his prey getting away from him. 

“You look like you hate this place,” he murmurs quietly, resting his cheek in his hand. His dark eyes focus on the man, flitting down and then back up in a motion of observance. 

“I guess you could say that,” the stranger’s voice has a barely there tremble to it, a sure fire sign of nerves flaring on end.

“I don’t like it either,” Jake answers simply, huffing out a breath of air that sends tufts of his fluffy hair swaying. 

“Oh… why are you here then?” 

“I wandered in by accident.”

There comes light laughter, and Jake is surprised to see the man’s lips tug up into a faint smile. “I wish I could say the same. I was dragged here by a coworker. They basically left me to fend for myself.”

“Sad.” It’s all Jake says, before he’s shifting in his seat to match the stranger’s position. His hands rest on his thighs, and his face is schooled into a bored expression. 

“A-Ah,” There comes a nervous noise of recognition. “Umm… not to sound rude or anything, but can I help you?”

“I don’t know,” Jake sighs, feigning exasperation. “I figured I could help you instead.” 

“Oh, huh?”

He jerks his head towards the exit of the club, hidden by a writhing mass of bodies. “Go outside with me?”

“Um,” The stranger hesitates, his hand coming to rub at the back of his neck nervously. “That’s, uh, a nice offer. But, um, I don’t even know your…” He pauses for a moment, motioning wildly at Jake. “...your name?”

“Jake.”

“Jake?”

There comes a silent nod. 

“Okay. Jake. Um. My name is Dwight.” 

“Dwight.” He remains curt with his words. Once more, he motions to the exit of the club, this time with his thumb. “Outside?”

The man - Dwight - laughs nervously, all the while shaking his head. “You don’t talk much do you?”

Jake shrugs nonchalantly. “I say what’s important.”

Dwight’s lips purse for a moment, and it’s clear that he’s considering his options. He looks around himself, seemingly searching for something or someone, before turning back to Jake and sighing, almost in defeat. “Sure. Let’s blow this joint.”

An amused noise tears its way out of Jake’s throat, something akin to a snort. He didn’t expect that phrase out of Dwight, considering his mousy nature, but it’s a pleasant surprise nonetheless. 

The two of them stand, and Jake is quick to find Dwight’s wrist, which causes the other to gasp softly in surprise. “O-Oh, hey… buy me dinner first?”

He turns his head a fraction, levelling Dwight with the barest of smirks, before turning forward and patiently leading him out of the nightclub. His soon to be prey’s face is lit up with a light blush, and the blood pooling in the other’s cheeks has Jake muffling a needy curse beneath his breath. 

He hadn’t forgotten how mouthwatering Dwight smelled. With him so close, it’s harder to ignore the thirst that leaves Jake licking eagerly at his lips, trying to quench the dryness there. 

The two of them make their way around the block, and the streets are still damp with an earlier rain, reflecting the stoplights and all the colors of a city at night. The weather is mild, dew pooling wetly on their skin and hair, but not so humid that it’s uncomfortable. The crisp fall air is refreshing, invigorating. Jake feels himself start to thrum with adrenaline, his fingers slipping from Dwight’s wrist to his own fingers, intertwining them in a deadlock. 

To his surprise, he feels Dwight squeeze back.

Wordlessly, he ushers his victim into a nearby alley, walking quickly down the length of it before turning into a private alcove. Immediately, Jake is turning, and his fingers slip from Dwight’s, his palms coming to press against the other’s chest, sending him stumbling back into the brick wall. Dwight chokes out a gasp, the air having been knocked out of him from the impact, but he gets no time to recover, for Jake is on him in an instant. 

Fingers dig into the meat of Dwight’s arms, drawing a pained hiss from him. His hands instinctively rise, press flat against Jake’s chest, pressing lightly, but not with enough force to shove the other away. That makes Jake hesitate, his lips parted, mouth ready to open and clamp down upon the other’s tender skin. Dwight looks up at him expectantly, before a concerned look dawns upon his face.

“You’re, um. Not a serial killer, right?”

Jake’s brows furrow. He wonders if he should tell Dwight the truth, be upfront about his fate. Part of him knows that the other would probably laugh in disbelief or think it was a sick joke. Jake kind of wished that was true. 

Dwight is, and he begrudgingly admits this, kind of attractive. Soft in the face, kind in the eyes. Even those thick black glasses of his lend to his charm. Jake can feel his conscious slowly trickling back, making his throat constrict and his blood rush faster. His fingers soften against Dwight’s arms, until he’s simply holding the other, and his dark eyes soften somewhat. 

He should have chosen a different target. This was… difficult. Dwight was too innocent, too woefully unaware of the danger that lurked right in front of him. Jake couldn’t kill him, couldn’t bring himself to snuff out the light in the other’s eyes. 

He feels a hand sliding up his chest, over the fluff of his scarf and around his neck to curl into the ends of his hair. Jake decides then to give his answer. “No.”

“Oh. Okay… good.”

He’s slowly pulled forward, and he feels his lips meet Dwight’s own, a soft press of their mouths together that leaves Jake feeling drunk off of the contact. It’s not rushed or needy or violent, but slow and perfectly timed. Dwight pulls back a breadth of an inch, only to press his mouth more insistently against Jake’s own, his lips parting slightly, his breath warm and sweet against Jake’s lips. Jake feels himself melting into the touch, a soft sigh slipping past dry lips, and he feels Dwight canting his head. The light touch of a tongue glides over his lips, presses softly between them until it’s meeting Jake’s own. 

The flavor is almost overwhelming. The scent and taste of blood isn’t the only thing altered by his vampirism, but so is the taste of people in general. Skin is sweeter, mouths promise something more delicious, and Jake can’t contain the soft noise of pleasure that resonates from his throat. 

Dwight’s other hand raises to stroke gently at his cheek, fingers eventually smoothing their way into the wild tufts of hair on Jake’s head, rubbing sweetly at his scalp. The light touch almost has him shivering, and he responds in kind by sliding his hands up Dwight’s arms, until he’s cupping the other’s face.

The promise of violence is lost in the sensual meeting of their mouths, the way their hands slide and grab at each other slowly, wantonly, but without any iota of urgency. The night air is cool, and only punctuated by the warmth of Dwight’s breath, whereas Jake’s remains cold, lifeless.

He feels something tugging at his scarf, and it slips away, leaving his neck bare. It’s not long before he feels the absence of Dwight’s lips, only to find them at the pulse on his neck, mouthing away and leaving damp trails in their wake. Jake’s teeth clamp down onto his bottom lip, suppressing a hiss of appreciation. 

There’s a hint of teeth against his skin, a bruise he knows won’t form, and the sensation reminds Jake of a pressing matter, his throat burning on queue. Before, it would have been easier to turn away, to find someone new to stalk and lure away, but now it was even harder, the presence of Dwight so close making him almost tremble with need. The scent is consuming, thick and heady and layered all over him.

His fingers slip into Dwight’s short hair, wrap around the fine strands, and then they  _ tug _ , pulling Dwight away from his neck and forcing his head to rest against the cold, brick wall. Jake’s eyes open, and there’s a sharp edge to them, something far from human and more feral than ever before. 

Dwight seems to recognize this, and Jake can see him visibly swallow. Still, he makes no move to run, to try and escape, and it’s all the urging Jake needs to claim what he came for. 

He draws near, lays a tender kiss against Dwight’s neck, lulls him back into a false sense of comfort that has the other sighing out a soft noise of pleasure. His arms encircle him, a sinister embrace meant to hold him still as he prepares to take his fill. Dwight’s head tilts back, his eyes closing against the murky city sky, offering more of his skin to Jake, unknowing of just exactly what it was he was doing. 

It’s too easy. Too tempting to wait any longer. Jake’s mouth parts, sharp teeth unseen by his prey. He clamps down on the soft skin of Dwight’s neck, and feels the flesh give beneath the razor sharp points. 

There comes a sharp gasp, and a violent twitch of Dwight’s body. Blood fills Jake’s mouth, thick and saccharine sweet, filling his senses with both the taste and smell of it. His arms still around Dwight, form an iron grasp that doesn’t allow the other to wiggle free. Dwight squirms in his hold, fingers curling into the back of Jake’s jacket, gripping it with a sort of desperation that only dying men display. 

He bites harder, the flesh parts more, and a gush of warm blood flows into Jake’s mouth. A moan slips from him, low and smooth, and he drinks slowly, savoring every little drop of the crimson fluid. Dwight’s breath quickens, coming in pants now, and he lets loose a whimper that has a chill running down Jake’s spine. 

“O-Oh my god,” It’s a weak moan, and not quite the words Jake was expecting, but the sound is somehow enticing. Dwight’s voice is soft and broken, but it bleeds a sort of allure to it that makes Jake pull him away from the brick wall and manhandle him until he’s clutching at the shoulders of Jake’s jacket, trying to stay steady on his two feet.

Through the pulse of his own blood rushing in his ears, Jake can hear Dwight’s heart hammering away, a wild rhythm that causes the other’s blood to rush out quicker. Jake mouths hungrily at his neck, tongue lapping at the wound, catching every stream of crimson that threatened to dye Dwight’s shirt red. He’s in the middle of the frenzy now, dark eyes ringed by inky spots of red, teeth leaking a venom that snakes its way through Dwight’s veins and leaves the other a limp doll in his grasp. 

There’s a weak thump against his back, and he barely recognizes it as Dwight’s fist, fingers balled weakly together and trying their best to get his attention. Jake ignores it for the most part, lost in a world of carnal pleasure and a high that leaves him buzzing with renewed energy. It’s only when he hears the other speak that his head surfaces above the clouds, and the message staggers the rhythm of his feeding. 

“S-Stop, stop, please…” It’s shuddered out on a weak breath, a barely there whisper full of primal fear. “Y-You’re killing me, please…” 

His whole body goes tense, his mouth stilling against Dwight’s neck. His fingers are dug into the back of the other, curled bone-white into Dwight’s shirt. Should he stop? No… no, it was too late. He’d already begun, and there was no turning back now. No, no. He needed to finish this, finish him, quench his thirst and  _ leave _ -

“J-Jake… Jake…”

If his blood ran any colder, it would be solid ice in his veins. Jake’s heart drops into his stomach, a sinking feeling that leaves him feeling hollow despite how much he’d drank. He tears away from Dwight with a gasp, stumbling back until his hand is catching himself against the opposite side of the alley. Dwight crumples immediately, all loose limbs and unnervingly pale skin, and Jake is left staring at his handiwork, rivulets of blood dripping lazily off his chin. 

Dwight isn’t quite unconscious, but he’s clearly out of it, eyes blinking out of focus, hand weakly raising to cover the still bleeding wound on his neck. The white of his shirt begins to go damp with red streaks, and his lashes dip against his cheeks as he fades in and out. Grey eyes flit up through the fog, and they land directly on Jake, as if asking silently, ‘Why?’

Jake’s teeth snap together, and he suppresses a noise of anguish. He immediately goes down onto his knees, hands rummaging through Dwight’s pockets until he finds what he’s looking for. A cell phone slips free of his pant’s pocket, and Jake immediately pushes the emergency call button, dialing nine-one-one with feverish urgency. A woman picks up on the other end, and drones out her rehearsed greeting. 

Jake barely lets her finish, “I need medical help right away. End of fourth street, alley on the left.” His hands tremble, the plastic of the phone rattling in his grip. His other hand shoos Dwight’s own away, palm pressing harshly against the wound on his neck, trying to stem the bleeding there. The blood slips through his fingers, sticky and red and a reminder of what he’d done. 

He doesn’t even give the operator time to respond, hanging up on her before positioning the phone in Dwight’s limp hand. He curses softly beneath his breath, his efforts at stemming the bleeding failing. Dark, red-ringed eyes flit about the alley, until they land on his discard scarf. He reaches for the loose cloth, repositioning Dwight’s head onto his lap so he can tie the item around his neck as a makeshift tourniquet. 

Dwight’s eyes are closed now, though his chest rises slowly with labored breath. Jake’s brows furrow downwards, his lips pressing together into a flat line. They’re still slick with blood, and he can’t help the way his tongue snakes out to lick at them afterwards. The taste is tainted by the guilt he feels. 

“Sorry,” he whispers quietly, resting Dwight’s head back down onto the cold pavement. “Hope you live. You’ll be the first if you do.”

He rises to his feet, and forces them to carry him away, backing out of the alley like a man facing down his mistakes. 

* * *

_ Beep. Beep. Beep.  _

Something flickered in his vision, small slits of light that seemed to disturb the endless sleep he was in.

_ Beep. Beep. Beep.  _

Hushed voices, cool air, sterile smell. Television droning on in the background. Something sticky on the top of his hand, something burning as it entered into it. 

_ Beep. Beep. B-Beep. B-Beep.  _

“Oh honey, are you awake? Doctor, he’s moving, I think he might be waking up.”

His neck. So sore, tender. Feels like something has stripped away the flesh there. Something stuffy wrapped around it. Gauze? 

“Oh no, don’t try to move. You’ve been through a lot, dear. Just stay calm.” Soft hands pushing him down, forcing him to still. 

Grey eyes flit open slowly, blinking up at the elderly face above him. A woman in scrubs, a stethoscope laid loosely around her neck. White walls, scratchy blankets, elevated bed. 

He was in a hospital. 

“Wha-” He croaks weakly, surprised to find that his voice was barely there. “...happened?”

“You don’t remember? Some wild animal attacked you. It tore into your neck pretty good. But shh, it’s okay now. You’re safe and you’re going to be alright.”

“Wild…” He struggles to clear his throat, finding that the motion sent pain sprawling across that area of his skin. Wild animal? No… no, that couldn’t be right. In the middle of the city? That made absolutely no sense. 

“I’ve met some folks with poor luck before, but I believe you take the cake, darling.” The woman’s voice is a soothing balm against the harsh, white light of the room and the beeping of the monitor. “We had to give you a blood transfusion right away. You’re lucky to be here, dearie. The paramedics thought they were going to lose you.”

Dwight squeezes his eyes closed, trying to wrack his mind for the memory, or at least a reminder of what happened. Woke up, went to work, went to a club. Club, club, club… Jake.

_ Jake _ .

His eyes open, wide against the square lights of the room’s ceiling. Slowly, his hand reaches up, touches tentatively at the gauze wrapped around his neck. 

“Not a dream…” He croaks weakly, finding it hard to use his voice. 

Just what the hell was Jake supposed to be?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people wanted a part two, so here you go! It’s not much, but I hope it scratches the itch. :)

The doctors release him a few days later. Dwight is given a bag full of his belongings, mostly his old clothing, and as he’s changing out of the scratchy hospital gown, his hand grazes against something foreign and crusted with a layer of… something. 

He pulls the item free from the bag, and lo and behold, it’s a white scarf covered in the remnants of his blood. He drops the offending item as if it were made of molten magma, stumbling back a few steps and catching himself on the sink of the bathroom, his heart hammering in his chest.

It was solid evidence of what had transpired that night, and the rust-colored blood that dried itself upon the fabric was most certainly his. His eyes screw shut, his mind wracking itself for any shred of memory after the initial attack. He gets only brief flashes, like a slideshow fading in and out with pictures that are too blurry to decipher. 

His vision swimming, his head feeling full of cotton, a dull pain that radiated from his neck down his shoulder, the murky sky, the feeling of losing himself to the darkness… and then nothing. That’s all he can conjure up. He doesn’t remember anything of the man that did this to him after the initial bite, can’t remember if he stuck around to watch him slowly die. 

Dwight feels tears prick at his eyes, and he sniffles lightly, knuckling at his orbital bone to smear any droplets that may have leaked free. For a moment, it had been so nice. Letting himself get lost in the soft lips of the other, the motions tender, almost liberating in a way. He fails to understand how someone could have done this to him, could have lured him into such an insidious trap, only to take advantage of his trusting nature. 

It’s a reminder that the world is exceedingly cruel, and Dwight should be careful about who he drops his guard around. 

...Also, apparently there were malevolent forces at work in the night, and animals weren’t the only natural predators skulking around. 

It turns his entire world upside down to think about. He wants to tell the doctors the truth, can feel the words burning on the tip of his tongue, scalding his throat. He wants them to know of the danger that lurks about, wants to take off into a tangent about the entire ordeal, but he remains silent, knowing better than to try and offer up such a ridiculous story. 

And it  _ was  _ ridiculous. It shouldn’t be real, shouldn’t be possible. Whatever Jake was, it wasn’t human. Humans couldn’t bite through flesh like it was butter, couldn’t manhandle him the way Jake did. Humans most certainly didn’t feast on each other like wild animals. It was absurd. Not possible. But somehow… still frighteningly real. 

The raw wound upon his neck was evidence of that. It still stung terribly, and served as a constant reminder that Dwight had almost met his end. The more he thinks about it, the more a primal sort of panic seems to settle in his veins. He can feel his anxiety flaring, making his heart hammer inside his chest. His hands tremble as he folds the hospital gown up and lays it across the sink’s marble edge. 

He wants to get out of here, to go back home where it’s warm and safe. The sterile smell is beginning to make his nose burn, and he longs for all the comforts of his apartment. Maybe he’ll drown himself in video games for a while, take his mind off of things before he eventually has to go back to work.

Anything to block out the memory of the man called Jake.

* * *

  
Days pass, and they turn into a week, two weeks, two and a half- and Dwight, perhaps foolishly, returns to the spot where his life was almost snuffed out. 

He has the scarf clutched in his hands, clean now, and the fabric bunches between his fingers as he white knuckles the hell out of it. The alley way is empty, and though the sun is setting, it seems like there’s nothing here. It’s all a distant dream, a nightmare that plays at the edges of his memory, but leaves him wondering. 

Wondering where Jake is, and how many people he’s managed to kill. 

He knows he shouldn’t be out here. It’s like inviting the demon into his house. It’s asking for trouble, but morbid curiosity and a strange lack of common sense takes over. He touches at the brick wall, exactly the spot where he remembers feeling his back hit it. His fingers graze over the rough texture, and for a moment, the memory of this place turns sweet. 

Soft lips, softer ministrations, such care and sensuality that it leaves his head spinning. The presence of Jake had been intoxicating, and it had been so easy to give into silly little whims, such silly little emotions that made Dwight want to kiss the breath out of him. Even now, a part of him craves that attention again, longs for the feel of nimble fingers touching at his waist or sliding gently across the skin of his face. 

He releases a broken noise, something akin to a laugh of disbelief. He shouldn’t be feeling this way, not after the man literally tried to kill him. He wonders if this is what Stockholm Syndrome feels like, because he decides right then and there that his brain obviously isn’t working right. 

What was he supposed to do in this situation? Hunt Jake down? Call the police on him? Neither option seems viable. For one, he hasn’t the slightest clue where the other could be. Two, he knows he doesn’t have the willpower inside of himself to cause harm to anyone, no matter what they do to him. Three… well… the police wouldn’t believe such a farfetched tale, would they? At best, they would investigate him and probably come up with nothing, and then Dwight will be the one left looking like a crazy fool.

He decides that standing here, lamenting over a situation he has absolutely no control over is quite useless, and forces himself to carry his feet elsewhere. As he strolls out of the alley, he fails to feel the pair of eyes watching him from afar.

* * *

Home is where the comfort is, and Dwight eagerly throws the scarf onto the sofa and sheds his thick jacket once he arrives there. The air is warm and inviting, a welcome change from the cold winds of late fall. He can feel hunger pangs beginning to assault his stomach, and spends the evening whipping up whatever he can find in the kitchen. He ends up making a one-pot pasta that doesn’t require too much effort, and slowly eats it as he perches himself upon the couch, lazily paying attention to the news that droned on in the background. 

“In other news, suspicions have been raised as several individuals have been found dead around the city, all seemingly having suffered the same type of wounds. Local law enforcement says that the situation is under investigation, though they have no leads and no witnesses. Stay tuned for more on this later, as we continue to cover the situation-”

His hand is on the remote instantly, desperately turning the channel as his neck throbs in compliance. He slaps his hand against the gauze and winces at the added pressure, cursing silently that he should have known better than to do that. Still, it aches, like a dark omen, and Dwight finds that his luck must be better than he thinks if he’s alive right now. 

The deaths and Jake must be linked together. There’s no other explanation for what’s going on right now. And the only person that knows… is him. 

But he can’t tell anyone. They won’t believe him. They’ll call him crazy, tell him to go see a psych doctor to cover that ridiculous amount of paranoia he must be experiencing. The police would probably think he was on drugs or something, and Dwight doesn’t know if he can handle that kind of mortification. 

He discards the bowl of pasta, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. The hour is getting late, and he knows he should sleep, but the gnawing sense of dread he feels prevents him from even thinking about getting in bed. He flips through channels until he finds some sort of comedy reality show, and let’s that numb his mind for a bit. 

The clock reads just a little after midnight, when he hears a knock at the door. His blood immediately runs cold, and Dwight looks with widened eyes at the entrance to his apartment, debating whether or not he should answer it or at least see who it is. For a few long moments, he sits there, petrified into stillness, until the knocking becomes more persistent, though still muted for the time of night. 

He forces himself to stand, and the task of making his legs move towards the door is an insurmountable one. Each step feels like a step closer to potential death, and Dwight can feel a cold sweat beading along his hairline.

It was probably just one of the apartment’s maintenance men, maybe coming to talk to him about a potential water leak or something. Wait, no… why would they come so late then? That doesn’t make any sense. Dwight tries to spin it in whatever way he can to make the danger seem less apparent, but nothing he comes up with feels right or possible. 

The knocking continues, soft, yet persistent. Dwight swallows past the lump in his throat, his eyes squeezing shut, before he reaches the door and places his hand upon the knob. For a moment, he’s paralyzed with trepidation, and he wonders if he should go grab a knife or not. He knows, however, that he wouldn’t have the will to swing it. So instead, he braces himself for whoever - or  _ whatever _ \- was on the other side. 

He turns the locking mechanism until the door unlocks itself, and slowly turns the knob, until it’s creaking open just a smidgen. Leaning forward, he tries to peak outside, though it’s hard to see through the small slit he’s allowed.

“H-Hello…?” His voice is trembling, and the fear he feels is quite apparent. His hands are sweating, going clammy against the knob.

“Can I come in?”

His blood runs cold. It’s like ice has run down the length of his spine. 

There’s no way. This couldn’t be happening. 

He goes to slam the door shut, but a gloved hand shoots out to catch the frame, and suddenly, Dwight is unable to close the gap. He feels feeble next to the strength that holds the door at bay, and shrinks back, wracking his mind for any potential ideas. Like, how to escape, for one… 

“G-Go away!” He tries for intimidation, but his voice trembles like a leaf in the wind. He stumbles back a few feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table, but catches himself before he can fall. 

“I can’t,” the voice says, and he sees the door open a smidgen. 

“Why not!” Dwight calls back, hand raising to his mouth where his teeth begin to weather away his fingernails. 

“I have to make something right.”

Oh god. What did that mean? Make something right? Was… was he going to kill Dwight now? Finish what he started? Dwight’s eyes widen in horror, and he releases a small whimper, a desperate noise full of fear and hopelessness. 

He really shouldn’t have answered the door. 

“Please, just… leave me alone. I don’t… I don’t want any trouble…!” 

The door finally swings open, and there he stands, sporting a thick coat and missing a particular accessory that now resides on Dwight’s couch. Dark eyes flit up to spy the trembling man, unreadable and stoic, but they feel like hot coals sinking through Dwight’s skin. He can feel tears pricking at his eyes, and hastily makes a motion to wipe them away, sniffling lightly as he does. 

“Don’t do that,” Jake urges him softly, and he takes a quick step forward, one that sends Dwight skittering back once more, flinching away from his presence. For a moment, an expression crosses over Jake’s face, almost pained, before it’s being schooled back into his usual mask. 

“Did you come to kill me? I promise, I won’t tell anyone what happened. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Your secret is safe with me, just… god, please don’t kill me.” He scrambles to find the correct words, instead attempting for some kind of truce. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t come to kill you.” Jake corrects him gently, holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “I just. Want to talk.”

“You want to what?” Dwight’s confusion is palpable, and for a moment, he forgets that he should be afraid of the monster in front of him. 

“Talk,” Jake repeats sternly, his hands lowering. “More specifically, apologize.”

He wanted to… apologize. For almost killing him. He wanted to say sorry for that? Like it was a minor transgression? For a moment, Dwight feels anger bubble inside of him. Though when he speaks, it’s already fizzled out a bit. His tone remains hard, however. “Oh. Well, then thanks for not killing me. Though if you want to be liberal about it, I’d say you should probably apologize to everyone else you’ve killed. Oh wait- they’re dead.”

He sees Jake wince visibly at that, and Dwight can feel a trickle of regret course through him. He knows he shouldn’t provoke Jake, knows he wouldn’t stand a chance against the other, but something righteous wells within him, and it’s hard to keep his lips sealed. Jake’s eyes lower, almost shamefully, and his shoulders square, as if he’s trying to keep it held together. 

Dwight feels guilty almost instantly, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s so apparent that whatever is bothering Jake is eating him up on the inside. 

“I don’t mean- I don’t… want to.” Jake offers quietly. 

“Then why do it?” Dwight asks pointedly. 

“Because, I… I have to. To survive.”

“There’s no other way?” His question is skeptical, but when Jake resolutely shakes his head, Dwight feels a pang of sympathy course through him. “You have to.” It’s not a question, but rather, a statement of realization. 

Jake was killing against his will. He was doing it out of necessity. But… that still didn’t excuse what he was doing! He was a murderer at the end of the day, and Dwight couldn’t offer him any comfort. Especially since he’d almost met his end at Jake’s hands. But… it was a difficult situation, one that Dwight had no idea how to handle. 

Jake was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and Dwight was just someone who’d unfortunately been roped into the entire thing against his will. 

“I didn’t mean to- I just-” Jake struggles for words, and his hand shoots to the back of his neck, rubbing at it awkwardly. “You… smelled good, and tasted good, and I just…”

Heat floods Dwight’s face, and he fights down the urge to bury his face in his hands. The last thing he needs to hear is how delicious he’d tasted. It makes him flood with chagrin, and he desperately wants to forget that Jake ever said anything to him. 

“I… well…” He’s at a loss for words, really. Jake obviously seems regretful of things, but at the end of the day, how sorry can he feel if he’s still killing people? But then again, he needs to do it to survive, and Dwight couldn’t imagine what it would be like to starve to death. A thought crosses his mind, and suddenly he’s surging forward with a proposition. “Can you… how often do you need to do it?” 

“Every few days,” Jake answers solemnly. 

“Can you stop? I mean, halfway through, can you force yourself to… I don’t know, tear away?” 

“I don’t know,” Jake answers honestly. “I’m not used to stopping. Once it starts, it’s… hard.” 

“Could you try?” Dwight offers, suddenly feeling ambitious with his thoughts. 

“What are you trying to say?” 

What  _ is  _ he trying to say? That he should feed only a little off of his victims and leave them alive, like Dwight was fortunate enough to experience? It still seems unethical, feeding from human beings, but… it sounds as if Jake didn’t exactly ask for this. He’s acting out of a sense of necessity rather than sick pleasure. Dwight can feel a frown forming upon his face. 

“Try to stop. To limit yourself, so you’re not killing people.” 

“I…” Jake hesitates, the silence almost suffocating between them. “I could try.”

It’s been almost three weeks since his departure from the hospital. Dwight knows enough about blood to know that a few pints can easily be restored within that time frame. The next thought he has, however, shocks even himself, and he heavily considers voicing it. “You’ve already bit me once. And you stopped, remember? I don’t know why, but you did. Maybe you can do it again.”

The look Jake shoots him is surprisingly raw for the otherwise silent man. Shock makes his eyebrows raise, and he fixes Dwight with a stare that has the other feeling just as foolish as the proposition he was hinting at. Jake shakes his head, slowly, and his chin dips a bit. He stops, though, once he realizes that there’s nothing there for him to bury his face in. His eyes flit over to Dwight’s couch momentarily, a barely noticeable motion. 

“You’re- you’re right. What on earth was I thinking? That’s the stupidest thing I could have off-”

“Can you handle it?” Jake whispers quietly, and his eyes are serious again, dark and full of intent. Perhaps it was determination. 

Dwight freezes at that, lips parted on a word, before he’s snapping his mouth shut. His eyes lower to the floor, his hand coming up to rub at his arm. “...Could you promise me that you’ll stop? No wait, swear it on your life.”

“If I can’t stop, and you die, then I’m taking myself out.”

Jake says it with such conviction, and that actually frightens Dwight for a moment. If this goes poorly, not only will he be dead, but so will Jake. He could still say no, possibly spare both of their lives, and make him leave. But the tone of Jake’s voice… it sounds as if he’s at war with himself, with his more monstrous side fighting relentlessly, and his human side trying with all its might to hold off the attack.

Of course. He wanted to prove that there was worth in him living. Dwight could only imagine how heavy Jake’s sins felt on his shoulders. 

There’s a moment of heavy silence between them, their eyes trained solely on each other now. Dwight’s head moves fractionally, the barest of nods, and Jake slowly closes the gap between them. Each step he takes is measured, soft, but most importantly, nonthreatening. He reaches out with his gloved hands, and gently grabs the upper parts of Dwight’s arms. 

Dwight resists the urge to sigh, the pleasant sound nearly slipping from his lips. Just the touch alone brings back such vivid memories that honestly should have faded by now. But lo and behold, they come rushing back to the surface, and Dwight can’t help but melt a little in Jake’s hold. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jake murmurs, his voice showing a tenderness that Dwight didn’t know he was capable of.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t,” It’s all he can offer, feeling as if the oxygen had been stolen out of his lungs. 

Jake presses closer, and the scent of pine needles and rain-touched air meets Dwight’s senses. It makes his eyes flutter closed, and he allows his hands to rise up, to curl over Jake’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. He feels the arrival of Jake’s breath against his neck, feels the softness of his wild hair brush against his jawline. 

A nose brushes up the length of his neck, bumps over the curve of his face. It travels to the opposite side of his neck, and Dwight is met with the realization that he’d offered the bandaged side to Jake. He’s coached to gently cant his head away with soft, yet ordering movements. The barely there noise of Jake drawing in a breath reaches his ears, before a cool exhale is felt against his skin. It sends goosebumps skittering across Dwight’s flesh.

He feels lips part against his warm skin, and tenses momentarily, expecting a wave of sharp pain. Instead, he feels the light suck of a kiss being worn into his skin, and immediately he’s deflating, letting loose a shaky sigh that mimics the way his heart feels. His skin turns damper with each slide of Jake’s lips, and Dwight can feel himself slipping deeper and deeper into a warm state of bliss. 

One of Jake’s hands rises up, and soon Dwight can feel his gloved palm pressing against the opposite side of his neck, taking care not to irritate the recently healed bite mark. His other hand curls invitingly around Dwight’s waist, coaxing him forward until their chests are flush together. 

A set of teeth pierces into his skin, and it happens slowly, almost torturously. Dwight’s voice catches on a pitiful whine, and his grip on Jake’s coat turns white-knuckled. He almost tries to jerk away, but catches himself before he can do so.

He would have to endure. That’s all he had to do. 

Endure and not die. Easier said than done.

Why did he ever agree to this? He barely knew Jake! He was just a moment of weakness in a back alley, a reprieve from the world and all his anxieties. Yet, Dwight couldn’t shake the attraction a part of him still felt, couldn’t find the will to fight back against Jake’s strangely magnetic nature. Everything about him was so inviting. He was stoic and mysterious and smelled like all the wonderful boons of mother nature and had the softest hair, the gentlest of touches, the most sensual take on intimacy. It made Dwight feel like he was drowning in the presence of the other, but it was a wonderful sort of overwhelming emotion. 

Jake’s teeth sink deeper, and a fresh well of blood begins to pool at Dwight’s collar. A breathy noise tears its way from Dwight’s throat, the pain strangely not what it should have been. He should have been screaming, writhing to get free, fighting for his life, and yet…

And yet… 

The only thing there was was a slightly uncomfortable sensation, the realization that something was digging into his skin and draining him slowly. The numbness crept in like an ominous shadow, turning Dwight’s limbs into putty and rendering him dead weight against Jake. He melts even further into the solitary man’s grasp, the edges of his vision blurring as his eyes open to slits. Warmth accompanies the numbness, a tingling sensation permeating Dwight’s fingertips and toes. 

He can feel Jake mouthing hungrily at his neck, all sharp teeth and slick tongue. The combined efforts has Dwight shuddering out yet another pathetic noise, and it borders on something almost too uncomfortable for him to think about. It should not feel  _ good  _ by any means, and yet here he was, slipping further and further into a hazy state of bliss that made absolutely no sense at all.

Dying shouldn’t feel as pleasant as this felt, he realizes. But he’s so far gone and so content to let Jake have his way with him that it doesn’t matter. Not at all. 

“Jake… Jake…” His voice is a breathy whisper, a barely there string of sounds. He’s conflicted about whether he should be begging Jake to stop, or to keep going entirely.

He feels the other’s tongue lick slowly up the length of his neck and almost loses it. The next noise that spills from him is purely a moan, a shameful noise tainted with want and carelessness.

Mercifully, or perhaps not, Jake finally disengages, and when he pulls back, it's with a smattering of blood smeared across his lips and chin. He’s breathing hard, and there’s a wild look in the dark depths of his eyes. Dwight, though heavily disoriented, notices the bright ring of red that encompasses their perimeter. 

“You stopped,” He smiles at him weakly, proud even. He feels at if he’s lost all feeling in his extremities, but it’s bearable. He’s alive, breathing, perhaps not entirely coherent, but still well enough to speak, albeit quietly.

“I did,” Jake murmurs just as quietly, though his voice has an underlying amount of strain to it.

“You did good-“ Dwight attempts to praise him, but the sudden feeling of having  _ no  _ feeling in his limbs makes him nearly slide out of Jake’s grip and pool onto the floor like a puddle.

Jake is quick to catch him, slinging an arm over his shoulder and helping Dwight shakily get to his feet. Jake leads him over to the sofa, directing him to sit down with patient motions, which Dwight is thankful for, because now the room is spinning and he’s beginning to feel a chill. 

“Rest,” Jake commands him firmly, seating himself next to Dwight. His fingers remain wrapped around Dwight’s forearm. They sneakily slide down his pale and chilled skin until they find his hand, where Jake allows them to curl around Dwight’s own.

“You can do it,” Dwight reiterates weakly, his voice fragile with blood loss. “You don’t have to- to kill. You can do  _ this _ .”

Jake’s gaze remains pensive, however, despite Dwight’s words. He lets silence hang in the air for a long while, his eyes flitting elsewhere as he mulls over his thoughts. “Who is going to let me do this, exactly? How many people are willing to…” He trails off, his brows furrowing, and there’s a clear line of concern etched into his features. 

It’s a good question, Dwight thinks. But one he’s willing to answer right away. “Me.” 

“No,” Jake states firmly, levelling him with a hard look. “You risked enough for this. No more. I’ve… done too much to you.”

“If I can do this every once in a while to help you, then that’s what I’ll do.” He ignores the hard edge in Jake’s eyes, trying to sound as firm and authoritative as he can. But a part of Dwight softens at his next words, his fingers squeezing weakly at Jake’s own. “I can’t imagine what dealing with this alone must be like. Let me  _ help  _ you.” 

Jake remains silent, stubbornly so. Dwight refuses to back down, even if he feels like he could drift off to sleep at any moment. He fights the heaviness in his eyes, determined to break through the icy exterior of the other. 

Finally, there comes a half defeated sigh. “...Fine. For now.”

Dwight would have beamed at him if he had the energy to muster up such an expression. As things are, he can feel exhaustion sinking deep into his bones, and the chill of the room is getting worse by the second. He allows his weight to slip, and his head to find Jake’s shoulder. The other makes no move to leave, only turning his head fractionally to gaze down at his sleepy donor. 

“Don’t mind me, just… going to rest here…”

He barely remembers falling asleep. Between the veil of being awake and being unconscious, he can feel something firm wrapping around him, pulling him down until his head is resting against something soft. The barely there touch of something petting softly at his hair is too much to fight, and Dwight slips deeper and deeper into the abyss, until only the warm comfort of sleep greets him.


End file.
